Disclaimer: I do not own The Lord of the Rings or any affiliated works, and I am not making a profit from this story.

Author's Note: Hi! This is my first LotR story, or at least the first one I'm comfortable posting. I absolutely adore Tolkien's work and Éomer is one of my favorite characters. I know this story has been done about five hundred times by far better writers, but hopefully I was able to add enough of a twist to keep it interesting. Initially I intended this to be a standalone piece, but I think the story has taken hold and I may possibly continue it. Thank you all for reading, and I hope you enjoy the story!

...

Éomer jumped off Firefoot, who snorted and stamped his hooves, sensing his Rider's unease. Éomer gave him a conciliatory pat. He knew Firefoot did not like the White City much more than he did himself; the cramped streets were no place for horses.

"Soon, my friend," he said, stroking the horse's neck, "we will ride the open plains again." Despite their success at lifting the siege of Mundburg, Éomer knew the war was not at an end. Aragorn was holding a council later on to decide on the proper course of action, and Éomer would be there when the time came. But he had another duty to see to first. He left Firefoot standing to the side, tied with a slipknot the warhorse could undo with his teeth if Éomer commanded it. He threw open the doors of the Houses of Healing and strode inside, making for the private room where his sister now slept and ignoring the healers who quietly bustled about cots full of recovering warriors. The room was dark, save for the pinpricks of candles that the healers carried.

He was about to enter Éowyn's chamber when a woman clad in a healer's white robe stepped between him and the door.

"My lord, you cannot enter yet," she said, quietly but firmly. "She woke a few minutes ago and is bathing now."

He rolled his eyes, sighed, and stepped back. "How long will it take?"

"Half an hour," she said, re-pinning a lock that had fallen from the intricately twisted hair atop her head. "No more."

He figured he might as well make the most of his time in this overblown infirmary. "I'll see to my men," he said, to no one in particular.

The woman was still there, her soft voice contrasting his own. "It is four in the morning. I think your gallant men would rather sleep than be woken, even if 'tis to converse with your royal person."

He sighed. He supposed she was right. "I dislike wasting time." They had such little time left, after all.

"I can understand that, my lord," she said. "Might I ask why you are awake so early?"

The 'my lords' were grating on his nerves. Until a few days ago, Éothain was the only one who'd ever called him that, and then only in jest. Now everyone bowed to him and called him by titles that did not feel like his. It was Théoden, his uncle, who had been "my lord king" and "your royal highness" and "Ruler of the Mark." Not him, Éomer Éomund's son. He captained an éored, yes, was the Third Marshall of the Mark, but never its ruler. Since Théodred had been killed he hadn't had the time to adjust to being heir. He'd been locked up by the Wormtongue and then they'd had so many battles to fight that he'd been sure he would die and leave Éowyn to rule long and wisely as their uncle had wished.

He glanced at the healer. "I did not feel like sleeping, and no, I do not want any drugs to help me rest." Various healers had tried to give him poppy or laudanum five or six times in the past few days alone. But he did not want sleep. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw the fell beast attack his uncle and Snowmane, glimpsed a slim, bright figure leap between the Witchking and his victims.

Her eyes widened. "I would not have offered you drugs, my lord."

There it was again, that title. He sighed as he realized that he was now reduced to snapping at unsuspecting women, a far cry from his once easygoing manner. Then again, he told himself, in the old days his sister had not been on the edge of succumbing to the Black Breath and his uncle and cousin had not been dead. Still, as much as he might dislike it, he was king now and he should act like it. He forced himself to take a deep breath before answering. "I am sorry. Do you know how my sister fares?"

"It was a bad wound," she replied slowly. "But Elessar's skill brought her back from the brink, and I think she will recover. Though my opinion is not as good as that of one of the matrons."

"Are you not one?" He asked, looking at her garb and realizing for the first time that she was young, Éowyn's age or less.

She glanced down for a moment. "I am only a volunteer. My father and brothers all rode to battle, but I could only serve Gondor with the skills I have."

He sighed bitterly. "Would that my sister were more like you."

She took a quick step back, raising her candle slightly so he could see more of her face in its warm light. "Surely you don't mean that, my lord? I would pay a steep price to be more like her! There is not a day that has gone by since the battle that I have not wished I had an ounce of the White Lady's courage in my weak form."

"Of course I don't mean that," he said, shocked by the sudden fervor with which she spoke. "I just wish she had never been in danger." Not that it mattered much anyway, he thought. Soon the world would fall, and there was nothing he or Aragorn or even Gandalf could do to stop it, and the Black Breath would take them all. Even Éowyn. He could not suppress a shudder at the thought.

She nodded, oblivious to his musings, and when she spoke her tone was soft again. "I understand what it is to worry about those you love."

She did not apologize, which surprised him. He was not offended; rather, it was refreshing for a Gondorian civilian to treat him as almost an equal instead of either of the other two extremes. "Your family," he said. "What has become of them?"

"To tell of my good fortune seems like gloating," she said, not meeting his eyes. "All survived, except for one of my cousins who died months ago. Another cousin took grievous wounds, but he will make a full recovery."

"I am glad for you," he said. "It is well to hear that there is some good even in this darkness. But I am sorry about your cousin."

She inclined her head. "Thank you. He was one of the bravest men Gondor shall ever know, and he died defending people he loved against Uruk-hai."

That struck him as odd. If her cousin was of Gondor, it was unlikely he had fought Saruman's horde. Surely she knew the difference between Uruk-hai and orcs? "Uruks?"

"Yes, he fell far from home, in the cold North. But I am sure that wherever his spirit wanders, he is happy to see the shadow lifted from this city, which meant more to him than all the riches between Harad and the Lonely Mountain."

With her every word, he grew more and more curious about who she was. Her manners and her bearing, from her squared shoulders to the proud tilt of her chin, were clearly those of a noble woman, and her accent was Gondorian, but not of Mundburg – though for some reason it sounded slightly familiar to his ears. "The shadow is not destroyed," he told her, for he sensed the optimism in her voice and it seemed important that he not let her believe.

She locked her gaze with his. "It will be," she said. "Do not lose hope."

He knew he should not drop his guard in front of one of the people, but her simple faith was too much for his kingly façade to bear. "How can you say that so surely? The final days of the war are at hand; and the contest will soon be decided. On the day we face him, we will all still be but Men, and Men are weak." That was what Saruman had said, that was what the Elves believed, and who was wiser than they?

She stepped closer to him, and she had to look up to meet his gaze. Her voice was controlled, but just barely, as if she were trying to rein in a fire. "Listen to me, you Rohir. For months the eastern sky was blackened, and when Sauron unleashed his orcs he sent a cloud of darkness to smother us, and the thunder rolled. His legions were like a sea on the Pelennor and with every hour they beat against this city like a black tide. They tore down our buildings and stained the white stones red with our blood. We were hopeless. I thought Sauron would consume us and cast the world into everlasting darkness and sorrow. And then I heard the horns of Rohan and I knew – I knew that the shadow did not reach to Anor in Varda's heavens. I knew the sun was rising and it mattered not that I could not see it, because I could feel it. That is what your Rohirrim are to me, to Gondor. You faced the Shadow and it fled before you though you were but Men. I will never lose hope again." Her eyes shone and a tear slipped down her cheek, but she did not back away.

He was silent for a moment, struck dumb, for he was sure he had glimpsed the bright flame of her soul. Perhaps not all was lost. "Thank you," he said thickly, at long last. "When I face the shadow again, I will think of you, my lady." His words hung in the air for a moment before he added quickly, "And of your words."

"I will look to the east for your return, my lord."

He stared at her unashamedly for a long minute, and she returned his gaze until one of the patients moaned in his sleep. She drew herself up. "I must see to him. I will take my leave of you. Do not forget what I said."

"I will not," he said as she turned to go. "Wait!"

"Yes?"

"What is your name?"

She gave him a small smile. "Lothíriel."

He was sure he had heard the name before, but for the life of him he could not remember where.

…

As the host waited to set off for the march to the Black Gates, Amrothos, his boisterous manner only slightly subdued, insisted on telling the funniest stories he could remember from his childhood in his home in Dol Amroth. He and his brother Erchirion had been compulsive mischief-makers, and Éomer smiled as he recalled getting into similar trouble with Théodred and Éowyn.

All the men within earshot were laughing, and the sounds of their merriment echoed against the cliffs. "… And then Lothí put us in two of her pink cloaks and made us play tea-party with her, and Aunt Ivriniel never found us!"

Now he remembered! Imrahil's daughter! Almost involuntarily he turned in Firefoot's saddle, and looked for the Houses of Healing, far above. A single figure stood outside the gates, her dark hair loosed and billowing in the wind. He could not see her face but he knew it was she, and he knew in his heart that she would see the shadow banished from the world.